The Law of Attraction

‘…I did warn you. Such a shame, you’ve worked so hard to get here and to fall at the final hurdle…’

‘That’s why you’re here? Just to ensure I can’t get tenancy? My God, how pathetic of you…’ I say to him.

‘Well, it makes no difference to me where I get tenancy. I’m not bothered. So, I figured if I can fuck you off in the process then it’s just an added bonus,’ he offers.

My God, the arrogance of the guy.

‘Martin, unless you’ve suddenly acquired a brain in the last four months, I’m not worried in the slightest. And I know you didn’t get into these Chambers through the normal route. Who owed your father a favour, I wonder?’ I ponder, sarcastically.

Martin grips the tray so hard, presumably through anger, that it starts shaking ever so slightly and his knuckles go pale, even though he tries to hide it in his face.

‘Everything okay?’ Skylar appears at the door in his hat and coat.

‘Yes, Richard, I’m ready to go,’ I say. I collect my bag and we head over to Crown Court.

As it turns out, one of the cases Skylar is prosecuting this morning is against Sid Ryder. I thought this would cause some kind of conflict of interest but apparently not; it happens all the time.

We go for a coffee in the advocates’ café and Skylar’s opponents come over to chat to him about the cases. I sit, trying to look clever and highly intelligent, saying nothing… wig still looks utterly ridiculous.

Sid strides over and parks himself next to Skylar, so I’m sitting opposite, trying not to look at him.

Don’t stare at his face. Or eyes.

Or mouth.

Oh, he just has an air about him. Like the kind of man who demands respect but simultaneously earns it. He is confident but not cocky. He is obviously popular but he isn’t arrogant about it. And as I watch him chatting to Skylar about sentencing guidelines, I want him to rip my knickers off. I realise, far too late into this high-school scene, that I am now staring at Ryder, which isn’t a good tactic, and so I drag my eyes somewhere else before he catches me drooling at him. He’s sporting stubble on his face today. Does he even know the effect this has on women? He must do.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asks me with a little smile that might as well say ‘I know you were staring at me’.

‘Oh, great, thanks!’ I reply, before putting my head down and writing complete gibberish in my blue notepad to make me look busy. Some wise soul told me that pupils should be seen and not heard, and I am fine with that. The less you speak, the less chance you have of pissing someone off. Martin, of course, appears to be immune from this convention. We have both been in Chambers for a matter of hours, but already I feel that he is getting on with people more than I am.

I caught him this morning, as I left Chambers, gurning away as his pupilmaster, the ever-hateful Dolus, was telling him about his completely dull yachting holiday last year. The crazy, wide-eyed, ‘I-desperately-want-to-please-you’ face appeared to be working. I have promised myself not to resort to such tactics. And that’s another thing: Martin appears to have reinvented himself as ‘Marty’ out of nowhere, like he’s trying to make himself cooler (not possible). It’s irritating.

Skylar is feeling charitable at lunchtime again so we head to the lovely little bistro next to Chambers for lunch.

‘So, which members of Chambers have you spoken to already?’ he asks, slurping his soup.

‘Well, not many, actually. I haven’t really had the chance…’

‘Well, you must make the time to do it. Don’t forget… election campaign. Very important that you don’t forget the social side of Chambers.’

I might have sodding time if you weren’t working me so bloody hard.

‘Sid seems nice,’ I say, oh-so-casually, before chomping into a ham and cheese panini.

‘Oh God,’ he groans, rolling his eyes. ‘Now, listen to me, Amanda, and listen very carefully.’ He’s serious now; he’s even put down his coffee for this bit. ‘You’re not the first woman to fall for Sid Ryder, and trust me when I say you won’t be the last.’

‘But…’ I intervene.

‘Yes, I know… the suave demeanour, the piercing eyes, that cheeky smile, not to mention his unique style of advocacy…’ he continues, as I look at him, absolutely embarrassed beyond belief, not to mention flummoxed by the possibility that Skylar has a far bigger crush on Sid than I do.

‘…But to start an intimate relationship with another member of Chambers, at this stage in your career, would be professional suicide.’ He glares at me for several seconds, just leaving this last bit hanging in the air, so as to emphasise the point dramatically.

‘Well, Richard, I can assure you that I do not harbour any feelings towards Sid, nor would I ever consider doing so throughout the currency of my pupillage,’ I state. ‘Besides,’ I ask, already knowing the answer, ‘I think he’s just got out of a relationship, hasn’t he?’.

‘With Clarinda, you mean? Yes. They were quite the glamorous couple at one point but it all went sour. I care for Sid, as an ex-pupil, but he has an eye for the women. He’ll no doubt make a play for you at some point, but I would advise you very much against it. You know the consequences…’

Yes, don’t I just.

Thankfully, I am saved from any more cringeworthy relationship chat by a young brunette woman coming over to talk to Skylar. She’s probably best described as ‘very curvy’ or voluptuous, and is wearing a very short skirt suit with huge heels (higher than mine!) and patterned tights so swirly it looks like her legs are being attacked by snakes. She’s caked her face in so much foundation you can see the line where it stops.

‘RICHARD! HOW ARE YOU? DID YOU GET A GOOD RESULT THIS MORNING?’ she bellows.

She has the most ridiculous voice I’ve ever heard. It’s so loud that diners actually turn to see who is making that godawful noise. Her accent is startling. She is trying to sound very posh and every word is overemphasised. Skylar gives me a subtle, raised-eyebrow look.

‘Angela, have you met our new pupil, Amanda?’ he enquires, seemingly ignoring her original questions. For a second, Angela looks really pissed off at this and her (very false) grin drops momentarily.

‘Richard! Ahahahaha! You are TOO funny! How many times have I told you about this?!’ she shrills, turning to me, offering her hand out to shake. ‘Hello, Amanda, my name is Ang-ella actually, like “Nigella”. Not An-gel-a. Angela Waites. Pleased to meet you.’

I shake her hand and (lie when I) say that I am pleased to meet her too.

‘Oh honestly, Richard, I’m having such a trying day. I got to court early to meet my client, only to find out…’ And she went on. And on. And on.

In fact, by the time she had finished, I had not only eaten my panini, but also finished my coffee and it was time to get back to Chambers.

‘…So, in the end it was adjourned and we have to come back tomorrow! Isn’t that the worst day?!’ she finally concludes.

‘Traumatising, Angela,’ Skylar replies sarcastically. He is still calling her Angela (hahaha!). Sensing she won’t be indulged here, Angela moves away and goes to join her ‘girls’, a gaggle of immaculately groomed women occupying the middle of the bistro.

‘So, what do you make of Angela?’ Skylar asks. I feel like asking him whether this is a trick question, given that the only true answer can be ‘false and highly irritating’.

‘She seems… enthusiastic,’ I reply.

‘Well, you can learn a lot from her. If I ever hear you speaking with a false accent like that, I will personally beat it out of you, understood?’

‘Yes,’ I giggle.

‘She’s also a member of the infamous Hot Bar Bitches Club, which you need to be aware of,’ he warns, glancing at the cackling gaggle without moving his head.

‘The what?’

‘It’s a club a group of women started years ago. They go out every Friday night. They have a name…’

Actually cringing to death.

‘But it’s a joke, though? It has to be a joke…’ I half-laugh.

Skylar screws his face up. ‘I think they’re actually quite proud of it. It defines them. Anyway, Angela is in it, as is Clarinda…’

I take a sly look over and, indeed, there she is; the ex of swoony Sid Ryder. Only this time, she isn’t being menacing in a calm and collected way, but obviously talking about something very animated because she’s using her hands and wild eyes to communicate everything. She looks quietly crazy.

‘There are about five or six of them,’ he goes on. ‘Influential, some would say very bitchy, women you don’t want to make enemies out of. Just be aware of them’

‘Right. Okay. Hot Bar Bitches, though? My God,’ I whisper.

‘Oh, I know, Amanda, I know…’

‘There isn’t a male version, is there?’ I ask, wincing at the thought.

‘What do you think? Of course there is…’ he laughs.

We can’t stay long for lunch. I’ve a feeling Skylar is the kind of person who will always find something for you to do, even when you’ve done everything.

We have to slide past the Hot Bar Bitches on the way out, who are all perched on tall stools, gossiping about some undeserving, poor soul, no doubt. They’re obviously the mean girl group that all schools have and look like they go to spas every weekend, drinking champagne as they sit in hot tubs, secretly plotting the downfall of people they don’t like.

As I’m walking ahead of Skylar, he says something to me and I whip my head round to ask what he said, only to catch my hair on something and do a very vocal ‘OUCH!’

Naturally, I’ve caught a large clump of my hair on Clarinda’s suit-cuff button. I mean, of course.

FUCKING HELL.

‘Babe! Are you okay?’ Clarinda says in the most patronising way imaginable. ‘What a terrible thing to happen! I haven’t ripped your extensions out, have I?!’ I hear her ‘bitches’ laugh as I’m bent over, desperately trying to untangle my hair. What a tragic scene.

I want to smack her in the face.

By the time I’ve messed around getting my hair free, I’m flustered and furious.

Be cool. You want to play the fake-nice game? Okay.

‘Ahh no, please don’t worry! And this is all my own hair, actually. No extensions here.’ Said with the sweetest smile ever.

Even Skylar can sense the female bitchslapping in the air because he’s saying, ‘Thank goodness that’s sorted. Let’s go, Amanda,’ as he physically tries to push me out of their firing line.

Clarinda looks at me for a few seconds before uttering, ‘It IS gorgeous! I could never pull it off. That colour would look so… tacky on me. On most people, actually. I think you have to be a really special kind of person to wear it so well… and as naturally as you do.’

Oh, the gloves have come off now. I can feel Skylar almost telepathically warning me not to get involved with this but she’s gone to far. He glares at me anxiously, like I’m a wild animal who needs to be tamed.

I laugh sarcastically. ‘Nah. I think anyone can wear blonde well naturally… but it takes a special kind of person to wear a peroxide blonde well. It’s such a strong look. Anyway, sorry for interrupting your lunch! Bye now!’ Then I powerwalk out, hoping Skylar is behind me.

As soon as we are outside, Skylar just looks at me as I wait for him to tell me to pack my stuff up and get the hell out of Chambers for being so aggressive. He stands opposite me, his eyes narrowed and head slightly tilted, like he’s trying to work me out. I have no idea what’s going to happen next, and so I can’t meet his eyes.

‘You’re not scared of people, are you?’ he asks, sounding mildly impressed.

‘Not of people like that, no,’ I reply in my best hoity-toity voice.

‘Not quite how I wanted your first run-in with them to be, but I have to say… smooth, very smooth,’ he replies, with a wry smile.

I smile back and, right there, I know that, no matter how hard he works me, Skylar is on my side.

Telling Heidi about the entire bitch-fest later that evening when I get home is great fun. She pulls all the outraged faces and keeps uttering ‘what absolute bitches!’ sporadically throughout the story.

‘You know, you really should get hair extensions, just to see the looks on their stuck-up faces then!’ Heidi suggests in all seriousness, and at one point I consider it. However, we both reach the conclusion that extensions, in addition to wearing the wig, might just be too much ‘stuff’ to wear on my head on a daily basis (in a weird TOWIE-meets-Rumpole kind of way).

By the end of the rant, she is furious on my behalf and I have to stop her seeking out Clarinda on social media and giving her a piece of her mind.

‘Mandy, it’s simply unacceptable that you must endure this kind of behaviour. They’re only jealous, you know,’ she says, filling my wine glass up.

‘It’s hard, though,’ I point out. ‘I can’t go into proper, full-on slaying mode because Skylar has warned me not to be bitchy, and he’s right. My career depends on this.’ I stretch out on the sofa, taking a large gulp.

‘Well, just do your best to avoid them. I can meet you every day for lunch if you want? Moral support? I hate to think of you alone in the middle of that bollocks,’ she kindly offers.

I smile at Heidi. I know she’s trying to help, but I need to do this myself. And I can’t run away from it.

‘Thanks, sweets. But Skylar has my back, and it’ll take more than a few catty comments about my hair to drag me down,’ I laugh, hoping I’m right.

CHAPTER 6

The first month of pupillage whooshes past in a blur.

I’ve literally spent the last month being dragged around every Crown Court in the north of the land, doing advocacy exercises for Skylar and… not much else. Well, I’ve been trying really hard to gracefully integrate into Chambers as best I can, but seeing Marty in action truly is something else. I’ve had to watch him professionally seduce virtually all members of Chambers and I honestly don’t know how he does it. He seems to pick up on their weaknesses and exploit them to his own advantage. It’s excruciating. For example, last week, I heard ‘Livvy’, another barrister in Chambers, telling him how she failed to get tickets for her favourite ballet in town. Marty put on his best smug/sympathetic/I’m-about-to-make-all-your-dreams-come-true face, informed her that his mother was on the Arts Council of SomethingOrOther in London, and that not only could he get her tickets, but it would be his ‘absolute pleasure’ to do so.

What. A. Fucking. Creep.

Everyone at the Newcastle Bar is giddy on this particularly leafy day in October because it’s their turn, among other legal centres on the North-Eastern Circuit, to host ‘Mess’. Despite the fact he’d rather be just about anywhere else on the planet, Skylar is taking me; he’s decided I’m ‘ready’, whatever that means.

‘Mess’ is basically a really formal, traditional dinner full of barristers, with frightening judges in attendance. From what I can gather, it’s all terribly hilarious and much wine is consumed. Obviously, for a baby barrister like myself, it’s a rather daunting process, not least because I will be expected to drink wine and, as a result, my personal standards will slip. I do not want to relax so much that I attempt to debate the new storyline in Hollyoaks with a High Court judge.

As the new pupils in Chambers, Marty and I are expected to go with our pupilmasters. The dress code is ‘formal suitwear’ for women and ‘lounge suits’ for men. I mean, seriously, what the hell is a ‘lounge suit’ anyway? Does anyone even know? As per the unwritten rule, pupils don’t pay for it, but Skylar makes a fuss, as usual. When I ask him for the payment to give to the Mess secretary, he gets his cheque book out and mutters something under his breath; the only audible words I can decipher are ‘bloody traditions’. He rips the cheque out with unnecessary vigour and gives it to me.

I have been told members of Chambers are meeting in Nevo Bar at 6.30 p.m., but when I arrive at 6.20 p.m. it appears Marty and his admirers have got there much earlier and are all sitting together in a booth, Marty in the middle, looking like the cat who got the cream.

‘Heeeyyy Mandy! Think it’s about time you were let off Skylar’s leash for a night! Why don’t you tell us all about this dancing job you had in Ibiza?’ creeps a barrister named ‘Beaumont’, who is old enough to be my biological grandfather. He winks as he says it, so I don’t think he wants a technical lowdown of what my job actually involved, but rather a demonstration of what he thinks it was, that is a free lapdance where I shake my tits in his face while artistically waving glittery fans about. Or something. I actually dread to think.

‘Yes, Amanda! Come on! Give us a demo! Consider it a Chambers initiation!’ yells Percy SomethingOrOther, as the rest of the Bad Boy Bar Crew clap and holler.

Thankfully, Skylar walks in at this very moment and trundles me off to the bar to get a drink. By this point, I need one.

The Mess is being held at the Liberty Gentlemen’s Club. It has a fairly normal exterior but the interior is something else. Grand staircase upon entering, the whole place dripping in chandeliers and one of those hideous patterned carpets throughout, which looks like it’s been there since time began.

The meal itself is in a large dining room containing several large round tables. It doesn’t matter where you sit, but it DOES matter in which order you walk into the room.

Of course it does.

‘You have to enter the room in order of seniority,’ says Skylar, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do.

People start forming a line. All the old folk who have been at the Bar hundreds of years (or so it appears) stand ceremoniously at the front, emanating a great sense of achievement. Then there’s me at the end and a whole load of middle-aged people in the middle.

Some random man I’ve never seen before comes to the front of the line with a kind of sceptre-stick thingy, stamps it on the floor three times and the general guffawing and chattering comes to an abrupt end. He declares that ‘Dinner shall be served!’ and everyone begins walking in.

As people spew into the dining room, they clamber around for the best seats. Obviously, Marty is beckoned over to the ‘old boys’ table consisting of his fan club from Chambers. Skylar really couldn’t have picked a worse table, but he’s been left with little option. It includes Angela and her Hot Bar Bitches Club (Flick, ‘Jazz’, Lottie and the passive-aggressive Clarinda) and a fella called Rupert, who is clearly tickled pink to be surrounded by women. I’m Enemy Number One to the ‘The Girls’ since HairGate and they just ignore me/giggle whenever I get anywhere near them (with the exception of Angela, because she’s in my Chambers so has to talk to me, but I know she’s only doing it to feed information back to the others, so I’m all over it). I’m sandwiched between Rupert and Skylar, so I don’t actually have to talk to them.

Angela is wired tonight. She’s joining Circuit, which basically means becoming a member of the Northern Barristers’ Organisation. That’s it. But, being the Bar, they can’t pass up the opportunity for a performance and so she has to participate in the most ridiculous tradition I’ve come across yet.

After dinner, she has to stand on a chair on one leg and recite her intention to be an honourable member of Circuit, then down her drink. As per the tradition, you invite all your friends to watch and they have to heckle you to try and put you off and, if they do, you have to start from the beginning again.

I’d managed to completely disgrace myself in week four of pupillage, one lunchtime in the Chambers lounge. Angela was wittering on about the ridiculous tradition and, naturally, being a normal person of this world, I assumed she was joking, so absurd did the whole thing sound. I started laughing, attempting to integrate myself into the conversation by saying, ‘Gosh, can you imagine if that was even a thing?! How pretentious!’ The entire lounge went deadly silent and everyone looked at me. Everyone except Skylar, who just took a deep breath, gazing at his homemade sandwich and doing a massive cringe face. I paused for a few seconds, frozen in mid-laugh, before saying, ‘That’s really a thing, isn’t it?’ Dolus scowled at me before uttering, ‘These kinds of traditions are taken very seriously in our world, Amanda. If you want to be part of it, I suggest you don’t mock them.’

‘Our’ World and ‘My’ World. Clearly, a million miles apart.

I’m in a bit of a quandary about what to drink as I’m scared of needing the loo in the next three hours because, as Rupert informs me, once the meal has started you’re not allowed to exit. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Tradition,’ he says, matter of factly.

Ah, of course.

‘But if you desperately need the toilet, you must request permission from the Circuit Junior to leave the room,’ Skylar goes on.

All tradition, apparently.

Conversation as we’re waiting for the meal to arrive truly is a universe away from my life. Rupert tells us all about his new baby (‘Maximilian, not Max’) and how he and his wife are currently searching for a new house.

‘Well, the problem is, Amelie just hasn’t been happy with any of the places we’ve seen so far. And there’s no point in rushing these things so we’ve decided to rent until we find the perfect place.’

‘Oh, yeah. Absolutly, Rupes. Are you renting locally?’, Flick empathises.

‘Yes. Just a small farmhouse, only six bedrooms. Got a bit of land for Amelie’s horses. Nothing extravagant. Just until we find our “forever home”, I believe the saying is!’ he laughs.

They all chuckle, like this is the most normal thing to say as you’re waiting for your tea to arrive.

I have absolutely nothing in common with these people.

Given the current company, I’d much rather eat in silence, but Angela puts a stop to all that by loudly proclaiming her (fake) concern about getting the speech on the chair right.

‘Oh! Can you imagine how embarrassing it will be if I get it wrong and have to start from the very beginning again?!’

I’m sure you’re counting on it, I want to add. The Covern (as they shall be known from here on in) giggle and indulge her.

‘Gella, don’t worry, we’re you’re bezzies! We’re here for you!’ they chorus.

Just to ensure everyone knows how seriously she’s taking it, ‘Gella’ closes her eyes tightly, clenches her fists and recites the speech in a whispery, overexaggerated way, much to the amusement of Skylar, who looks on in disdain. Rupert laps it up and encourages the drama, presumably in an attempt to curry favour with The Covern.

Skylar and I eat in silence, ignoring the hullabaloo around us, unprepared to participate in it in any way whatsoever. I look at my watch and realise it’s only 8.37 p.m. – two more courses, speeches and eight barristers to join Circuit before I can go home. The things you have to suffer for your profession.

As the meal progresses, the wine flows and the room becomes louder with general yakking. Spontaneous loud roars of laughter keep erupting, filling the room with noise. The candles in the room, in conjunction with the number of bodies in it (along with the fact that the doors are locked owing to stupid tradition) means the temperature is rising.

Suit jackets start coming off, which is ideal for some of the women because it means they get to loosen their shirt buttons and show a bit of cleavage. The men lap it up. No wonder they’re in no rush to get home. Except Skylar, of course. He keeps looking at his watch, willing the next course to come so he can escape. I can’t blame him.

‘It’s something you just have to tolerate, Amanda,’ Skylar says. ‘Some people belong to this crowd and some people don’t. You have to make your peace with it, but learn to work with it.’